


complications you could do without

by inmoonlightigetseasick



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A very loose understanding of catholicism, Angst, Angst with Ambiguous Ending, Fleabag AU, Fleabag!Napoleon, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Descriptions of Rome, Grief, Heartbreak, Hot Priest!Illya, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Napoleon and Gaby are Siblings, Sibling Rivalry, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Unsupportive family, Wedding, death of a family member, no insensitivity intended!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmoonlightigetseasick/pseuds/inmoonlightigetseasick
Summary: Soon, Napoleon was at the front of the queue, the last of the others trailing out. The giant hallowed space of the church surrounded just the two of them, and suddenly felt a lot smaller.“Hello,” the Priest said, his smile much more hesitant than the one Napoleon saw him offer the usual crowd.“Don’t sound too shocked to see me.”This made the Priest laugh, and set something alight in Napoleon’s chest. Hellfire, perhaps.--It's a Fleabag AU. What if Illya but also Hot Priest. And no it doesn't (exactly) end well.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	complications you could do without

Napoleon’s life, as it stood in this moment, was a colossal monument to all his mistakes. He washed his hands until the skin began to glow pink, desperate to shed himself from himself— wishful to think that were possible.

Only he could bring his sister’s engagement party to a crashing halt, earning himself a bloody nose to boot. 

Shaking, his hands pressed against the tender pulp of his nose, he hissed right away at the contact. Hot blood dribbled down his face once again, curling around his chin and falling in fat red drops on the posh porcelain sink’s edge. 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself. And in concord with his curse, as if confirming he would be going expressly to hell, if he wasn’t already there, the Priest walked in. “Fuck,” he repeated, closing his eyes. 

He felt a presence draw nearer. Soft cyrillic syllables. “Are you alright?” 

One eye flicked open. The Priest was close, almost suffocatingly so. Napoleon itched to repel him, made his voice go stone cold. “What’s it look like?” 

The Priest blinked, unfazed. “It looks like you need help.” 

“Don’t presume what I need, thank you.” Napoleon angled his body away. He peered awkwardly for a hand towel, his head tilted up to stave the flow of blood. His irritation mounted when he saw an offering of towels, an olive branch bunched up in the Priest’s big hands.

He snatched them out of the Priest’s grip, and rushing, pressed them indelicately to his face. He paid for his intemperance with another stab of pain. But he’d had enough. The room was filling with tension, and it was coming from the Priest’s presence, his patient and pale gaze.

Napoleon didn’t want pity like that, or worse, some misplaced paternalistic concern. He’d made an ass of himself at dinner, and he didn’t need reminding of it. 

He made a move to leave, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He looked at the Priest, who handed him a card. 

“If you ever need someone,” he said, and something lurched in Napoleon’s chest. “To talk to. I’m always there.” 

Napoleon took the card, looked down to see an address to a church. He shoved it in his pocket and walked out without a backwards glance.

The cold night was a relief, an absolution. The cab ride home nearly rocked him to sleep. But he managed to make it to his bed, his eyes closing to the lingering image of those warm, abiding eyes. A charming, self-deprecating smile. A laugh that felt like a sip of whiskey, burning from the inside out, only for you to chase that feeling over and over again. 

His eyes flung open as soon as the realization hit him. This itch in his chest wasn’t going to just go away. He’d have to make a trip to church tomorrow. Anyway, it was Sunday. 

— 

The dinner had started out fine. Napoleon had made a promise to himself and to Gaby to be on his best behaviour. It was her engagement celebration after all, and somewhere deep down in his stale, brittle heart, he loved his sister enough to want to make it special. Even if he loathed the man she was about to marry with every fibre of his being.

Alexander wasn’t the only enemy at their table, though he was perhaps the loudest. His stepfather had decided to make an appearance as well. He supposed now the old bastard was all he had to pass for parents. It was a rough deal. 

There was also an unexpected addition to their table. Someone Napoleon had never met, but who was introduced as the Priest who would be marrying Gaby and Alexander. Napoleon cast his disaffected gaze over the man, dressed casually in a fitted black turtleneck, no little collar thing in sight. Napoleon was momentarily confused, he thought they were always supposed to wear those. He said as much, a little thrown off by the earnestness with which the Priest stared back. 

“I prefer to keep it off when I’m first meeting people. I think it puts them more at ease.” 

He had an accent. Russian. It dulled his _ts_ and _ds_ in a way that made the way he spoke strangely compelling. Napoleon appraised him more carefully now, and was struck by the fact that he was incredibly handsome. He his shoulders hunched a little as he sat, but it barely hid his massive frame, and did nothing to distract from his statuesque features. 

Eyes caught on the priest’s long, Roman nose, Napoleon asked, “Given that you look nothing like a priest, I think maybe the hint would be helpful.” 

At this, he laughed. A surprising, delightful deep sound. “And what should a priest look like?”

“Not… sculpted by Michaelangelo?” 

The Priest’s eyes widened then. Napoleon was surprised at how the sight of his cheeks growing pink made Napoleon’s own face warm. If Napoleon didn’t think he was headed for hell before, he was sure now, as he felt the familiar warm spill of desire, spreading through his chest. If the Priest recognized it in his gaze, impressively, he didn’t look away.

“Napoleon,” Gaby hissed, and both their heads turned towards her. Napoleon could see his sister’s irritation present in her white-knuckle grip on her wine-glass. “Stop flirting with my Priest.”

“I was just talking to him!” 

“You look like you want to eat him.” 

Napoleon took a sip of his wine. “Well if you’d picked a nicer restaurant maybe I’d actually want something on the menu.” 

“I’d pick a nicer restaurant but you’d probably be banned for public indecency—”

“If those posh places don’t want people having sex in the bathrooms then they shouldn’t have all that counterspace.” 

“Children!” Their stepfather’s voice thundered, silencing them immediately. Alexander stared over smugly at Napoleon and Gaby chastised. Napoleon pressed his lips into a thin line. His stepfather’s scowl deepened, “Disrespecting a member of the clergy is just what I’d expect from you Napoleon, but perhaps for your sister you can be on your behaviour for one night.” 

Now Napoleon’s face _was_ hot, but from embarrassment, and his stomach was turning with a sick feeling. His knuckles itched with indignant violence. 

The Priest cleared his throat, Napoleon looked over at him quickly, and he held Napoleon’s gaze, sending a strange calm through him. Napoleon wondered if they’d taught him that at divinity school. 

“I did not feel any disrespect, truly.” He smiled, and Napoleon started breathing manually, trying to keep his exhale even. “In fact I am flattered.” 

“You didn’t answer the question though,” Napoleon said, surprised that his voice didn’t shake. There was an honest confusion now in the Priest’s eyes. He looked like he was thinking back over their brief conversation. His expression when he seemed to alight on his answer made Napoleon’s stomach flutter. _What was happening to him?_

“Why don’t I look like a priest?”

Napoleon smiled. But the Priest’s smile grew slightly strained. His laugh sounded forced, a little awkward. 

“I was not always a priest,” he said. Napoleon rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, clearly, you used to be an underwear model.” 

The bright flush of embarrassment again, like a watercolour blooming on pale canvas. Napoleon could only tamp down on the thrill it made him feel because he could see Gaby glaring at him. 

“Not quite. I used to be in Russian army... really, the SVR.” A stunned silence fell over the table. 

“You were a spy?” Of all people it was Alexander who blurted this out. 

The Priest winced. “I was mainly… tactical support. But I suppose this is why… I look this way.” 

“I suppose I walked myself into this,” Napoleon said with an easy grin, “but I don’t think we can rest until you spill a Russian secret or two.” 

Illya looked at him then, momentary bashfulness receding back into that deep, inquisitive stare. Napoleon tried not to squirm under it. “I am afraid the only Russian secret I can tell you is to store vodka in the deep freezer.” 

Napoleon pouted, he wasn’t going to deny he was flirting anymore, “Come on, a real secret. Did you ever carry out an assassination?”

The Priest laughed then, shaking his head. But then his eyes caught on Napoleon’s when he said, “If I told you, I would have to kill you.”

The moment hung in the air, thick with tension, the Priest held Napoleon’s gaze until Napoleon’s started to feel his mouth go dry. He had just about scrounged up something to say, when Gaby spoke. 

“So why go from intelligence to… priesthood?” 

He turned his charming smile on Gaby now. “It is rather a cliche but I had a calling.” 

“You witnessed a miracle?” 

“Not exactly. I can’t explain how He works, that isn’t the job. All I know is that something got through to me, told me I needed to be here, told me I never needed to explain myself. And that is what I wanted.”

Gaby cupped her chin in her hand, elbow resting on the table. “And you never wanted to get married? Have kids?” 

The Priest sighed. “I think the love the world has meant for me is that between me and God. And I am content with that.”

“What would you do if you fell in love?” Napoleon asked then, blurted really. This time when the Priest looked back at him, his eyes were missing all their earlier warmth. His lips were tight, uncomfortable. Of course Napoleon had said something to upset him. An apology climbed its way up his throat but before he could say it, the Priest spoke. 

“I would choose God,” he said simply, and he turned then back to Gaby. “But speaking of marriages, please tell me, how has your planning been?” 

Napoleon watched his sister’s eyes light up as she started talking about floral arrangements and seating plans. He felt his own interest in the conversation dwindle, and he took a sip of his wine. 

With the Priest’s attention gone, the air between them suddenly cold, Napoleon wanted nothing more than to disappear. He knew, miserably, that he’d have to clock at least a few more hours before he could make an excuse to leave.

The conversation filtered around him. He watched his sister gush about the 1960s ‘Roman Holdiay’ theme for the event, how she was getting a vintage dress. He played with the buttons on his waistcoat, sipped his wine too fast. 

Suddenly, he heard his name, and his attention was drawn back. 

“Napoleon _is_ bringing a date,” his sister was insisting to Alexander. Then she turned to him, an eyebrow raised, “aren’t you?”

“Well,” Napoleon cringed, “Cass and I broke up.” 

“What?” Gaby said, “When?”

Napoleon waved his hand in the air. “I don’t know. Last week, last month. Who cares?”

“I wish you’d have told me,” Gaby said, her mouth in a familiar frown.

“I won’t show up to your wedding single, okay.” 

Now Gaby was backtracking, “Well you can, I mean, I can set up a single’s table. It’ll throw off my whole seating plan, but I can do it.” 

“Wouldn’t I be sitting with the family?” 

“Hm,” Gaby said, “Never mind, I suppose you would.” 

Napoleon rolled his eyes. But then Gaby asked, “You think you’ll bring a woman or a man or…?” 

Before Napoleon could answer, his stepfather interjected. “What? You’re still… you know…?” 

“Bisexual? Yes. Still bisexual. It doesn’t exactly go away.” 

“Right.” 

Napoleon watched his stepfather’s lip curl with distaste. It had long since stopped hurting him. He only rolled his eyes and turned back to his meal. But that was when he caught the shoulders of the Priest shaking in silent laughter. Napoleon’s head tilted towards him in surprise. 

“Shit,” Napoleon said, taking in the golden bend of the priest’s posture, “I suppose that's against your rules.” 

When he met Napoleon’s gaze, there was a sharp look in his eye, but his cheek was dimpled in a smile. “If there are rules against such things as people loving who they please, they are certainly ones I choose not to follow.” 

His sincerity was unexpected, and it made Napoleon’s stomach feel funny again. Napoleon closed his mouth with a click, flushing when he realized he’d been gaping like an idiot. He tried returning the smirk, recovering rather badly with a rebuttal. 

“I didn’t know you could play so fast and loose with those.”

“Many people would be surprised how much of religion is interpretation.” 

His stepfather frowned. “That’s a fairly liberal view of religion.” 

The table then broke out into a discussion about the Bible that Napoleon had no hope of following. He itched at that moment, for a cigarette. So he got up to go have one. He could only really make it last twenty minutes, and when he got back to the table, no one even looked up. Now Napoleon a new irritation took hold under Napoleon’s skin. No one saw him, no one cared. Perhaps he was being dramatic, but he could leave the table and come back with little impact, which maybe wouldn’t matter if the people sitting around said table weren’t the pathetic excuse he had for a family. They were meant to be the people closest to him, but they had a funny knack for making him feel completely, utterly alone. 

Conversation rang around the table about Gaby and Alexander’s honeymoon plans. They’d be going to Italy, of course. Napoleon kept missing any good places to interject. He stayed silent, stuffing bread into his mouth. No one had asked him a question in forty-five minutes. 

“So, what do you do?” The priest’s curious blue glance landed on him, like a sudden hand clapped against his back. He nearly started, and he certainly forgot to answer until a too-long silence passed. He still had a full mouthful of roll to contend with. The Priest waited. 

“I’m er… well, I work in art.” 

His stepfather snorted then. “More of a hobby, isn’t it? Doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”

Napoleon gritted his teeth, “No I suppose the gallery I own does that.”

“Oh, you _own_ it now do you?”

Napoleon felt his traitor cheeks getting hot. “I’m working on it.” 

Another snort. This time from his sisters asshole fiance. “And how are those loan applications coming? I offered to look them over for you.” 

He gritted his teeth. “And I appreciate that but I don’t need your help.” 

“You need a lot more than what I can offer you, but, as usual, you’re never going to ask for it. Too proud for that aren’t you? Can’t imagine why.”

Something snapped. He slammed his hands against the table, the plates and cutlery rattled, making Gaby jolt, and a litany of scolding looks shot from all ends of the table. The Priest’s gaze was trained on his plate. Napoleon didn’t have time to think about it, his anger was bilious, acid resting at the top of his throat. 

“Is this what this dinner was about then? For you to all gang up on me and criticize me for the way I live my life? Undermining my sexuality? My career? That’s rich coming from the likes of you. You don’t know better than me just because you’re old or in love or financially fucking stable, all right?”

A silent pall fell over the group. Napoleon’s ears were ringing. Then a quiet voice. 

“I know it’s difficult for you to understand this but not _everything_ is about you,” the cold voice belonged to his sister.

“Oh no, you’re right Gaby. Tonight is about how you’re throwing your life away to marry some asshole. And for what? Because you think you can’t do any better? Because all you know how to do is settle?” 

“How dare you!” That was Alexander. Gaby had gone pale, silent, the true sign of her anger. Napoleon felt his stomach sink. 

“You think I’m not good enough for this family?” Alexander was getting up now, the restaurant was falling silent. Napoleon could feel the eyes turning towards them. 

“Look, Alexander, you don’t have to make a scene,” Napoleon tried, holding his hands up, placating. 

But Alexander wasn’t backing down. He stalked closer, making Napoleon stand, startled, sending his chair toppling back behind him. 

“Alexander? Sit back down,” his stepfather said now. 

But Alexander was right in his face now. “You’re a failure, you know that, right? You’re nothing. You have no right to say anything about me or my marriage when no one could stand you long enough to even threaten you with commitment.” 

Well, that stung. Napoleon wasn’t going to let Alexander see that. So instead he smiled, cocky and disingenuous. 

“Aw, Alex, you say the sweetest things. You sure it’s my sister you want to marry? As you said, I’m available.” 

“Oh please, like I’m a fucking—”

“Whatever you are about to say,” the Priest’s stern voice interrupted, Napoleon looked at him in surprise, there was a warning in his glare, directed at Alexander, “I advise you do not say it.” 

“With all due respect, Father, I don’t need your help,” Napoleon said, and the Priest turned to him, a flash of hurt in his eyes. Napoleon looked away quickly, Alexander was still in his space, so wordlessly, he pushed him back. 

This was perhaps Napoleon’s worst decision of the night. He saw it all happen in flashes. Alexander approached him, murder in his eyes. Gaby’s warning shout. If the whole restaurant weren’t watching them all already, now their drama had come into sharper focus in the silence. Napoleon stepped back, right into the approaching manager who had finally come to tell them off. Overcorrecting, he stepped forward again, bashing his nose right into Alexander’s thick skull. 

Then came the blood from his nose, gushing in earnest. Everyone’s panicked voices were dim to his ears as he pushed past them and barrelled into the bathroom. 

It hadn’t been his finest night. 

—

There was something about the sunlight streaming through stained glass. The way the pinks and purples and blues were cast against the wooden pews. It almost made Napoleon understand why people got into this religion thing. Almost. 

As engaging as a speaker, and as easy as a sight the Priest was, especially bathed in the hazy golden glow, authoritative at the pulpit, a whole Sunday mass was a lot to sit through for someone who barely had any idea what he was saying. 

At the end of the service, Napoleon decided to hang back, watching the Priest turn his warm gaze to each of the parishoners. Napoleon watched him take an old woman’s hands, lean down to hear her better, and throw his head back laughing at something she said. The sight stunned him, distracting him enough to clip his hip against a pew. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. Immediately the old man in front of him turned back and frowned. Napoleon winced in what he hoped was an apologetic way, but the man didn’t look impressed. Well, you can’t win them all.

When he looked up, he noticed the Priest looking at him curiously. When Napoleon met his gaze, his attention turned back to the young couple he was talking to. Soon, Napoleon was at the front of the queue, the last of the others trailing out. The giant hallowed space of the church surrounded just the two of them, and suddenly felt a lot smaller. 

“Hello,” the Priest said, his smile much more hesitant than the one Napoleon saw him offer the usual crowd. 

“Don’t sound too shocked to see me.” 

This made the Priest laugh, and set something alight in Napoleon’s chest. Hellfire, perhaps. 

“No, not shocked. I’m pleased.”

_Pleased._ Napoleon laughed to cover his nervousness. “Um. I came to apologize, actually.” 

“Apologize?” 

“For my behaviour at that dinner last night. I’m sorry I’m not usually… like that. Violent or anything. I’d just had a lot to drink and my family… well, you met them. They tend to bring out the worst in me.”

The Priest looked at him for a long time, like he was dissecting Napoleon, picking him apart. But Napoleon wanted to let him. He was curious to see what would happen. 

Finally, he spoke, “Do you want a gin and tonic?” 

Napoleon was so startled he laughed, his grin matched by the Priest’s as they stared at each other for a moment too long before Napoleon thought to answer. “Why not?”

Soon, they were venturing into the church’s basement. It appeared to have been renovated to host classrooms for meetings. The Priest led Napoleon all the way to the back, into a storage room. The place was like a time capsule. Beatles records, stacks of old Agatha Christie paperbacks, dusty wine bottles, and all sorts of other things Napoleon would have sworn were supposed to be ‘Satanic’ were shoved into every corner. All the spare furniture had gone into this room as well, cramped up against each other. Against one of the walls, Napoleon noticed propaganda posters from the Cold War. Big blocky Cyrillic type, warning against the incoming ‘Red Peril.’ Napoleon followed the priest past all of this junk to the back of a room, where a table was set up with a couple of chairs. There the Priest reached up to the top of some tall cabinets, regular sized perhaps to a giant like him, and pulled out two cans of the M&S stuff. 

“Do you have any preference?” he asked, holding them up. Napoleon considered for a minute how his hands dwarfed the cans. 

“Pink, for sure.” 

The Priest tossed him the can and he caught it, by some miracle. Napoleon made the mistake of even saying as much. 

“If you were looking for miracles. You’ve come to the right place.” 

As a reflex, Napoleon rolled his eyes. But then he considered that was perhaps disrespectful, and he was meant to be here apologizing. He took a deep swig of his drink. “Sorry if I’m a bit skeptical of that.”

“I can understand that. A little doubt is good.”

“Is that what you tell all those old ladies fawning over you at church?” 

The Priest grinned, and shook his head. “I would, if that was what they needed. But they come here for comfort, routine, community.”

“What is it exactly that you think I need?” 

“A friend?” The Priest shrugged. “That’s what I need, at least.”

Napoleon took a long drink, his mouth had gone a little dry. “Well, Father, normally I know my friends’ names.”

“You can call me Illya.” 

“Illya,” Napoleon said, testing the name on his tongue. He liked the way it sounded. Maybe a bit too much. So, hoping Illya would ignore the flush that was definitely on his face, explain it away with the alcohol, Napoleon wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “No, that won’t work. It’s too intimate.” 

“My name is too intimate for you?” Illya raised an eyebrow, “like it doesn’t turn you on to call me Father?” 

Napoleon’s jaw dropped. Illya looked anywhere but at him, his own cheeks flushed and taking another drink of his canned g&t. Napoleon’s eyes flitted around the room too, until they landed on the weird old junk scattered around the room, his eyes landing on a faded, red poster. 

“How about this?” Napoleon started, and Illya turned to meet his gaze. “I’ll call you the Red Peril. A reference to your KGB past.” 

Illya laughed then, that full sunlight sound. Napoleon chuckled a little too, still not sure why this disarmed him so much. 

“I like it,” Illya said. “Even if the KGB were gone before I was born. What shall I call you?” 

“Whatever you want, I’m easy.” Napoleon spread his palms, grinning, but he curled his fingers quickly when he noticed the tips of his fingers trembling. Maybe it was time to change the subject. “Look, I— I did come here for a reason. And that was to apologize… maybe to explain myself before you decide if you want to be my friend.”

“You’re forgiven,” Illya said, like it was that easy. “And you don’t have to explain yourself. Not to me.” 

A different sort of shiver ran through Napoleon then. He supposed this basement wasn’t very well insulated. 

“Family can be difficult,” Illya continued, mercifully, because Napoleon’s mouth was dry of any words. “You know what Tolstoy said.”

“Oh sure.” 

“ _Do_ you know?” He grinned, and Napoleon rolled his eyes. 

“Okay fine. I don’t.” 

Illya quoted him the opening lines of _Anna Karenina_ , first in Russian, his voice deeper as they formed the slavic syllables. Then, he translated, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

Napoleon wrinkled his nose, “I guess originality is some consolation for being miserable.” 

Illya smiled, “I take it to mean every family’s path to healing is different. It’s unique to them, and it’s up to them to take that path. I am in no place to judge, only to offer guidance if I am asked. That’s why I said you don’t need to apologize.” 

Napoleon considered that for a moment. “Do I need to apologize for flirting with you?”

Illya laughed again, and blushed again, and looked away. But he said, “No. It’s alright.” 

“So you liked it?” 

“Napoleon,” Illya’s voice had a warning tone to it. But Napoleon was emboldened by the slight smile on Illya’s lips. 

“You have to understand from my perspective, it’s really hard to look at you and not tell you how beautiful you are.” 

“I implore you to try. If I can manage, surely so can you.”

At once Illya turned red. He cleared his throat and took a long drink of his g&t. Napoleon's heart did somersaults. He felt his face getting hot. Still, desperate to diffuse the tension, he laughed. it was a little awkward. 

“Maybe you should grow a beard,” he mused. And then Illya laughed again, the tension momentarily broken. Then Napoleon shook his head. “No, that would do it for me too.” 

“Maybe I should try finding some of your turn-offs, or this friendship could be doomed before it starts.” _Implying you find me beautiful certainly isn't one of them,_ Napoleon thought. 

Instead he said, “Doomed, Peril? You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

But that’s exactly how Napoleon felt. Doomed. Or maybe damned. His stomach was fire and brimstone, his heart was hot with a kind of desire he hadn’t felt in a really long time. Illya smiled, and there was caution in his eyes. But not nearly enough. 

—

“Obviously no one _means_ to come to an important appointment like this with coffee all down their front,” Napoleon was trying to reason, his hands splayed placatingly in front of him. The banker— Florence, according to the nameplate on her desk— looked at him dead-eyed, entirely unimpressed. 

“I only said it doesn’t _help_ your case. Not that it kills it.”

Napoleon felt his chest inflate then, a fragile bubble of hope. 

Then Florence finished. “What kills it is your total lack of identifiable revenue stream. You have to understand how this model doesn’t make you look like a responsible client.”

“I thought that was what the meeting was for. So I could explain! Contextualize! Embellish. I’m trying to show you how responsible I am.” 

“And so quickly we’ve circled back to the coffee stain.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake—” Napoleon started. He’d had enough. He started unbuttoning his shirt. The banker’s eyes widened. It only took seconds for the first touch of the AC-chilled bank air to touch his bare skin before Napoleon realized today of all days, he’d neglected an undershirt. “Fuck,” he said and began to button up as quickly as possible, his nervous fingers fumbling. 

“Mr. Solo, I’ll ask that you leave now.” Florence was standing up now, her cheeks flaming red, and she gestured towards the door. 

“No—please, sorry, I can explain. Look I—”

“Mr. Solo, we are done here.”

“Look, I wasn’t trying to strip for you, I thought I had a shirt on underneath.” 

“I cannot express to you how little I care. Now get out of my office.” 

Napoleon gathered his papers under Florence’s testy gaze and shuffled out, his buttons hastily poked into the wrong holes made his shirt balloon out in an unflattering way, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Hanging his head the whole tube ride home, he fumed in silence. Not getting this loan meant he was going to lose the gallery. And what he would do after that? It hurt too much to even think about. So when he arrived back at the gallery, all he intended on doing for the rest of the day was getting drunk in the store-room and wallowing in his failure. 

To his surprise, Illya was standing outside, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He was wearing his little priest collar for a change. A grin took over his face as his eyes alighted on Napoleon, and he waved. 

He stopped short, unable to keep confusion off his expression. “What are you doing here?” 

“You saw my place of work. I thought it only fair that I see yours.”

“It might not be mine for much longer,” Napoleon grumbled, brushing past Illya to unlock the doors. Pushing them open, he invited the Priest inside. “I had my loan meeting today at the bank and it ended with them shouting me out of the office.” 

There was a sympathetic look on Illya’s face, and a not-so furtive glance down at the coffee stain on Napoleon’s shirt. He waited for Napoleon to elaborate before saying anything, but then Napoleon caught a tremble in the corner of his lip. 

“I know how it looks,” Napoleon said, throwing his hands up, “I didn’t mean to go in like this.” 

“These things happen,” Illya said, nodding. But now his shoulders were shaking a little with the effort to contain his laughs. 

“The coffee wasn’t my fault. Some idiot on the tube couldn’t keep his balance. It was when I started stripping that it became inappropriate. I can see that now.”

Now Illya burst out laughing completely, and Napoleon couldn’t even begrudge him, it was such a beautiful sound. Napoleon knew he was grinning like an idiot, but didn’t care. 

“Do you want to come in?” 

“Lead the way.” 

Napoleon turned and unlocked the door, with only a little bit of fiddling. For all that it was costing him to keep up the place, the building was close to falling apart. It opened up to the gallery space, the walls painted a careful white, so as to not distract from the frames and their abstract expressionist contents— splashes and spots of multicolour paint and fraught political messages — that were carefully curated against them. In the center of the room was an arrangement of the sculpture collection. Napoleon led Illya, weaving through them, and he watched Illya’s curious head tilted to look at each of them. 

“These are interesting,” he offered. Napoleon was touched by his effort. 

“You don’t have to like them. Or even understand them. At least not at first glance.” To make his point, Napoleon paused and gestured to a sculpture that looked like a wadded up tissue housed in a glass case on a tall pillar. 

“That ‘tissue’ is actually made with pulp salvaged from deforested trees in the Amazon, the rainforest is being decimated by expansions in farmland,” Napoleon explained, and Illya’s eyebrows raised, he looked a little impressed. Napoleon smiled, “It’s supposed to represent consumerism and climate change and humankind’s relationship with nature and all that.” 

“That is… actually rather profound.”

“I have some depth to me,” Napoleon said. “At least in the pieces I choose to display.” 

“I see that. It just takes another glance.”

Napoleon laughed, made nervous suddenly by the way Illya was looking at him. So he led Illya further into the gallery, to a door in the back. This led to Napoleon’s office, a tiny, cramped, and disorganized place. It doubled as an unofficial second storeroom, with stacks of paintings shoved against the walls, books and papers in a jumble on the small desk in the center, and two little chairs in among the chaos. Napoleon gestured to one, and Illya folded himself into it. 

“I guess it’s my turn to offer you a drink.”

“What have you got?” 

Napoleon stepped behind the desk and rummaged around, he managed to find a box of fancy tumblers he’d been gifted and had never opened, he took the opportunity to take two of them out, along with the bottle of bourbon he always kept in his bottom drawer. He poured them each a finger and Illya took his glass, clinking it against Napoleon’s, holding his gaze, and taking a sip.

“I didn’t think being friends with a priest was going to fuel my daydrinking.” 

Illya laughed. “It’s not necessarily a hobby of _mine_.” 

“Well we should do something you like, then. It’s only fair.” 

Illya looked up at him, eyebrows quirked in surprised delight. “You mean that?” 

“I think that’s how friendship works.” 

“You’re out of practice?” 

“Desperately.” 

“Me too.”

“Well, friend, what’s on the agenda?” 

“You’ll want to change.” 

“I can do that.” And Napoleon began to rummage around behind his desk again, hands displacing paper and books, furthering the chaos on the desk surface, until he found what he was looking for, tucked behind a few boxes. A Zegna he’d been gifted ages ago, still wrapped upin a ribbon and tissue from the fancy store. 

Illya raised his eyebrows higher as Napoleon held it up. Napoleon rolled his eyes, explained, “No, I can’t afford things like this, but my clients can.”

“Starving artist is a myth, then.” 

“Well, _these_ days.” Napoleon shrugged. Then his fingers set to unbuttoning his shirt. He wasn’t looking at Illya as he pulled it off his shoulders, but then he heard a coughing sound, he turned. Illya’s face was red, his eyes turned away. 

“You okay?” Napoleon asked, setting down his stained shirt and unwrapping the next one. Illya looked over, his eyes slipping down to Napoleon’s bare torso and then quickly looking away. 

“Fine,” he coughed, “Bourbon is strong.”

“I thought you’d be able to handle it,” Napoleon said, willing Illya’s eyes back on him. He fiddled with the shirt in his hands, flexing slightly, and revelling in the way Illya’s eyes travelled over his body. “I’ve seen the kind of vodka you Russians drink.”

“I’m a little out of practice, uh, taking it straight.” Illya’s gaze was fixed somewhere around Napoleon’s abs for a second before he seemed to catch himself and look away again. Napoleon smirked, and decided to put him out of his misery, tugging on the new shirt, buttoning it up and tucking it into his slacks in record time.

“All ready,” he said, “How do I look?”

“Appropriate for the occasion,” Illya said, face the picture of diplomacy, but a mischevous twinkle in his eye.

“You say the sweetest things, Peril.”

Illya stood then, bumping his shins against boxes and corners of canvases only a few times as Napoleon followed him out of his awful office, giggling and apologizing at once. And by the time they emerged through the maze of sculptures onto the street, they had to take a moment to pause, clutching at their stomachs to stop from laughing. It was Illya who finally recovered first. He stood up straight and gestured for Napoleon to follow, and he kept an unforgiving pace. 

“Where are we going in such a hurry?” 

“I don’t want to be late.”

“Late to what?” 

Illya charged forward with only a cheeky grin and a twinkle of mischief in his eye. 

The streets of London weren’t too packed for late morning on a Monday, so Napoleon only had to dodge a tourist or two as they walked deeper through the winding streets. Finally, they made it to an innocuous looking building that Napoleon had never seen before, his whole life living here.

“If you’ve brought me all this way to kill me,” Napoleon said as they lingered in the doorway, “you shouldn’t have bothered. You could have hid my body in the clutter of my office, no one would have checked.” 

Illya laughed a little, but shook his head. “Not here to kill you, but to make you try something new. Might have the same effect.” 

“Have a _little_ faith in me.” Napoleon grinned as Illya rolled his eyes. 

“Your puns are getting tiring, go inside.”

The entered a room, lit yellow by the afternoon streaming in through the high windows. It had a ring of about twenty chairs set up in a broad ellipse, a table rested in the center. Only about two of the chairs were occupied. Napoleon hesitated in the doorway, and felt Illya come up behind him, a little dangerously close. Napoleon suppressed a shiver as Illya leaned down to whisper in his ear. He explained they had come to a Quaker meeting. 

“You sit and wait, and if the spirit speaks to you, you can stand up and share.” Napoleon tried his best to school his features but Illya must have seen his skepticism. “Just try it. Many people find it quite meditative.”

So they took their seats, Illya seemed to purposefully give Napoleon a wide berth, choosing to sit across from him. Napoleon supposed it was to help him resist the temptation to whisper every inane thing that came to mind. 

But his mind was not meditating in the slightest. It was jumping, along with his gaze, to every dusty corner of the room. A kind of anxiety of inaction was building in his chest, and he was thinking about everything he shouldn’t be. Like his failed loan application, like the imminent closure of his gallery, like how much he didn’t want Gaby to get married, like how much he missed his mother, like how much he fancied Illya. And wasn’t that the most damning thought of all?

He must have risen in a panic, he would be convinced of that to his dying day. But without even realizing it, he was on his feet. 

“I think I only still believe in love because David and Victoria Beckham are still together. If that ever falls apart, it’s over for me.” 

As soon as he stopped talking, an oppressive silence filled the room. Napoleon didn’t know if anyone was supposed to respond. Still standing, he cast his panicked gaze to Illya. And… Illya stared back at him for a long moment. He didn’t look upset, just stunned in utter silence. Then a smile spread across his face, and all at once, Napoleon felt it, that peace that he had promised, that he’d been doing everything he could to find. It burned in the space between him and Illya, glowing with sunlight and flecks of dust. 

— 

Napoleon’s hand hovered over the doorbell. He watched his long index finger shaking in the pale porchlight. He curled his knuckles then, and floated them over the dark oak door of his childhood home, wondering how it had gotten to the point that he didn’t recognize it anymore, that he felt actively unwelcome entering. 

“Are you going in or what?” 

The testy voice behind him was his sister’s. He turned slowly to face her. She was dressed smartly in a knee-length dark blue dress, her blazer from work still tight across her shoulders. She looked at him with barely concealed disdain. Things were still testy between them since her engagement. Napoleon had hoped to smooth things over tonight, but things were already getting off to a less-than-ideal start.

“Good evening to you too.” 

“If you’re not going in can you at least move out of the way?” 

“You didn’t bring your fiance.”

“He had work.” 

Gaby held a paper bag likely filled with their stepfather’s favourite whiskey. The paper crinkled around her tight grip on the bottleneck. 

“His work is more important than this?” 

“Well, he never met her, did he?” 

“That doesn’t mean he can’t come support you.” 

“I don’t need support.”

“Gaby it’s only been a year.” 

“If this is your way of saying _you_ need support, Napoleon, I’ve already given you my therapist’s number. She’s excellent.” 

Napoleon sighed. 

“Forget it.” 

He turned and pushed the button. The dull ring of the doorbell sounded inside. It was a long, tense moment between them before their stepfather answered the door. His grim look didn’t improve things much. They entered, Napoleon toed off his shoes, and the three of them walked silently to the dining room. His stepfather had set up white daisies, their mother’s favourite, in a vase Napoleon had made for her in A-Level Art. It was a touching gesture, enough so that Napoleon felt tears prickle in the corners of his eyes as he took his seat, and he stared at it. 

It had only been a year, and that was hitting him now, all over again.

The three of them sat in silence, under the heavy pallor of grief, unspeaking for several long moments. Their plates were empty in front of them, a plate of roast and bowls full of sides steaming in the center of the table. No one moved to eat. 

“I suppose I should say something,” their stepfather finally broke the silence. Napoleon’s head jerked to look at him, but he looked stalwarly down at his plate. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“Um well,” Napoleon heard his own voice, and he was surprised at its hoarseness. He cleared his throat. “Maybe we could share our favourite memories of her? That’s something families do.” 

There was a long silence. Then Gaby cleared her throat.

Her voice was strong and clear, but she stared resolutely at her napkin. “When I think about mum, and when I remember her, I can't help but think about all those years I spent being horrible to her, because I was a teenager and I didn’t know how else to be. I knew she’d get frustrated with me, she had to, she was only human. But whenever I was in a particularly pissy mood, she’d stop, she wouldn't fight with me. Instead, she'd just take me on these long drives. She wouldn’t push me away. And we didn’t have to talk. Sometimes we’d just listen to music.” Gaby’s eyes flicked over to Napoleon’s then, a knowing glint sparkled in them. “Kate Bush, of course. Sometimes ABBA.” Napoleon grinned. Gaby smiled back for a moment, but just as quickly it faded. “I miss that. I miss her.”

Napoleon was speechless at seeing Gaby like this. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d even come close to the tears he now saw sparkling in the corners of her eyes. She blinked tersely, like she resented them being there. 

The room grew uncomfortably silent, the more they stewed in the memory, fondness and sympathy twisting back into that dull ache of grief that permeated everything. 

Napoleon supposed he should speak. “My favourite memory of her—”

“Listen, Napoleon,” his stepfather interrupted. Napoleon shut his mouth promptly, so hard that his teeth clicked, and he turned to look at him, but his stepfather didn’t look back. He continued, his voice monotone and gruff. “It was a nice idea but I don’t think this is helping anyone.”

“Oh and you’re the expert now?” Napoleon scoffed. Something awful was pent up inside him. A sick combination of the anger of being interrupted, the unresolved tension still sitting in the air from Gaby’s engagement dinner, and the resentment that had been building between them ever since his mother had married this awful excuse for a man.

“If you want counselling, I’ve already offered to pay for professionals. This isn’t the place for it.” 

“I didn’t ask for psycho _therapy_ for fuck’s sake, I just wanted to talk about her like a normal family.”

“It might be normal for you,” his stepfather countered, his own anger was barely concealed in his voice, “But some of us need more time to sit with our grief. It’s perfectly childish of you to force us into some emotional charade for your benefit.” 

Now Napoleon was fuming. “Oh you need more time? What to spend even more of the money she left you? Even a cent of which would help me keep my stupid livelihood going?” 

He watched his stepfather flinch at the accusation, his cool gaze was on Napoleon’s now though, and his calm didn’t break. Napoleon could feel himself beginning to shake. 

“She said very clearly that she wanted you to make it on your own.”

“If she saw how I was doing now, I’m certain she’d be generous enough to offer me help.”

“These are your choices, Napoleon, and if you don’t learn how to live with them, then I won’t have raised you the way your mother wanted.”

“I’m in my _thirties_.”

“It would behoove you to act like it.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Napoleon!” Now Gaby chimed in, scowling. “Can we have _one_ family dinner without fighting?” 

No one had touched the food yet. Napoleon turned to his stepfather, “Why didn’t you get out the wine?” 

His stepfather sighed, resting his head in his hands, elbows clunking heavily on the mahogany table. “Go pick something from the cellar.”

Napoleon didn’t need to be asked twice, presented with an excuse to leave the misery that radiated through the dining room. He caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror, and saw his face red and blotchy. He smoothed a self-conscious hand through his hair and rushed to the cool of the wine cellar and took the time to breathe, to collect himself. He let the blood drain from his face. He let himself relive the memory of his mother that he never got to share. 

It was just like Gaby’s memory. Not the glowing moments of her proud smile at his graduation, the warm and constant comfort of her presence at every single one of his shows, but the quiet moments they shared, when he was a kid, with papers and paints spread all over that very dining table, silently working beside each other, looking up only to offer a smile, an occasional joke. Those long, awful months she’d been sick, it felt almost okay to sit silently by her bedside while she slept, and sketch, and watercolour. Just being together, and being close, being comfortable, never once having to explain himself. He missed having someone like that in his life, he ached for it more than anything.

Napoleon sighed and picked a nice vintage of malbec from the back of the wine racks. This wouldn’t be an easy night. He grabbed two to be safe.

When he returned to the table, Gaby and their stepfather were deep in conversation. They looked up sharply and grew quiet as he sat down.

“Did I miss something?” Napoleon asked, pointedly pouring himself a generous glass of wine. He slid the first bottle to his right, towards his stepfather who took it gladly and poured his own glass, not answering Napoleon’s question. Gaby stared at the bottle of wine until it was her turn to pour her own glass. The room was full of only glass clinking and the low glugs of wine being poured, and then their quiet sips.

Finally Gaby broke. “We know you didn’t get your loan.”

Of all the things, Napoleon wasn’t expecting _that._

“I… didn’t. Yet. I’m working on it.”

“There’s nothing to work on,” his stepfather said, shaking his head gravely. “They rejected the application.”

“For now.” 

“Napoleon, that’s not how this works.”

“Oh, so you’re a banker all of a sudden?”

“I am,” Gaby nearly shouted.

“I thought you were a lawyer.” 

Gaby’s jaw dropped. “I’ve never been a lawyer!”

“Well congratulations then, whatever you do is boring enough that I never ask!”

“That’s rich coming from someone who does _nothing_.”

“I _run_ a fucking _gallery_. And anyway, you’re going to _see_ exactly what I do at the show tomorrow.” Gaby shut her mouth with a click. There was a long silence after he said that, and his sister and stepfather shared a glance. That was never good. 

“Tomorrow?” Gaby asked, her voice quiet. 

“Yes…” Napoleon said, his gaze flicking back and forth between his family, slowly piecing together what was going on. “I’ve only been telling you about this for _months_.” 

“Napoleon…” Gaby started, but Napoleon shook his head, feeling suddenly weary. He let Gaby’s half-apologetic explanations wash over him, not listening. He supposed she said something about her wedding planning and appointments that couldn’t be rescheduled, and when she was done he just shrugged. 

He turned to his stepfather. “What’s your excuse?” 

His stepfather was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed. 

“I have a date.” 

At this point, nothing could _truly_ shock Napoleon. He had long known, and had been accused of _exaggerating_ , the depths of his stepfather’s callousness, but that felt like the final straw. Consider his camel’s back broken. 

He stood up to leave and didn’t say another word. It was the mature choice. His other instinct had been to scream, to yell his head off, to smash something. He barely heard it when his sister called him back, and didn’t even flinch when his stepfather threatened something vague— he was already in the hallway, too far to make it out clearly. His hand curled around the second, unopened bottle of wine. 

_Corkscrew_ was the first thought on his mind as he crashed into his flat. And then there were no thoughts for a long time. Alcohol washed over and blurred the sharp edges of betrayal he felt, poking into every soft part of him in tiny pinpricks. 

The next morning, he woke to a headache and his phone pressed awkwardly against his cheek. He rose blearily, rubbing the mark he was sure it had left on his cheek. He unlocked it, and his heart stopped at the last screen he had been looking at before he’d passed out. 

His texts were open. Specifically alighted on Illya’s number, which he had never used before. And yet for some godforsaken reason, he’d texted at 4am. 

“Come to my gallery show tonight? I’ve got no one else.”

— 

Teresa cleared her throat, and Napoleon jerked his head up, away from his phone to look at her. Illya hadn’t texted back. It was a reach that he would. If not for the ungodly hour Napoleon had sent the text, but the maudlin sentiment of it, the pitiful honesty. They’d only been friends for a _week._ He was already coming on too strong. Too much. He wouldn’t be surprised if Illya never wanted to see him again, or when he did, if he would try to convert Napoleon in earnest. He supposed God knew he needed help. Still the hope that Illya would come was insistent and he had to consciously shut it down in order to focus again. 

He looked up at his gallery assistant, illuminated by the warm glow of the sconces they’d set up for the showing. 

The mood in the room was intimate, even though there were about a hundred people there. Soft piano music played from the speakers, filtering past the steady beat of the rainy London night, and interspersed with the quiet hum of whispers in the crowd. They quietened once Theresa got their attention once more. 

“Sorry, as I said, to introduce the collection we have our gallery’s owner and curator, Napoleon Solo!” There was a small smattering of polite applause as he replaced Teresa at the center of the room.

“Welcome, esteemed guests,” Napoleon grinned his most charming grin, smothering his nervousness with it, as he glanced out into the sizable crowd. It was a sea of baggy jeans and sweater-vests, long leather trench-coats, tattoos, piercings, and mullets stared back at him. “I cannot express to you enough how much I appreciate your presence tonight. As you are all aware, climate change is perhaps the biggest threat facing humankind today. The devastating effects of greenhouse gas production and unregulated capitalistic exploitation of natural resources has meant the cruel seizure of land from indigenous populations around the globe, as well as a complete disregard for human rights. We are seeing the rise of climate refugees from all over the planet, which we are literally making uninhabitable in some places. We don’t feel it in the Northern hemisphere, it is the most exploited people who will continue to suffer.” Napoleon took a breath, he looked around the room again, to get a gauge of the audience. Nose-ring faces were solemn and nodding under choppy, multicoloured bangs. 

Then, among the sea of hipsters— there was Illya. He was tall, his head a golden beacon among the crowd. Napoleon didn’t want to be a cliche, but the way the spotlights in the gallery hit him he looked like he had a _halo_. He wasn’t in his priest get-up, _again_ , but he stuck out in the crowd in his sheer normalcy, his black turtleneck and slacks were an unexpectedly appropriate sartorial choice, but the sheer earnestness on his face separated him from the art crowd. Napoleon felt his heart thump, loud and obvious. His mouth went a little dry. He’d paused too long. 

“So—so you might be wondering. In the face of all that, are we really going to sit around here and make _art?_ ” He laughed nervously, and a small sympathetic laugh murmured through the crowd. Illya beamed, and suddenly a renewed burst of energy burst through Napoleon’s chest.

“Climate change is a bigger issue than any one of us can tackle on our own. Just one hundred companies are responsible for 99% of all carbon emissions. We have only twelve years to make sure the damage we have done to the planet is not irreversible. That’s not something we can fix by flipping our light switches when we leave the room, or carrying a reusable coffee cup. We should still do those things, but what we should do with even more fervor is organize, lobby, and demand our governments do better. With all that said, I present you a series of appeals to your emotion, to galvanize you to take our government to task. Artists from home and abroad are gathered here today to take you to task, and to bring you together. They have salvaged materials from the earth, from landfills, from recycling facilities. Tonight I hope you enjoy their transformative message, which I promise, is a certain calibre above your primary school recycled dioramas. With that said, enjoy. Please take any of the vegan, local, and sustainably farmed, wine and passed hors d’oeuvres. And when you’re done, please reach out to the climate organizers among us tonight to find out what more you can _do_. Thank you.”

There was a pattering of applause. Napoleon breathed, he smiled, and the crowd dispersed. His first thought was to make a bee-line for Illya, who had caught his eye, who was grinning and making his way over. But then, he was pulled away quickly with a tug at his elbow. An important client. He shot Illya an apologetic look which Illya waved away, though his smile was gone. He wandered in the opposite direction, and began to look at a painting. Napoleon sighed, it was one of his favourites, a Group of Seven send up with depictions of swaths of forests which no longer existed. But he followed his client dutifully, making his best sell to keep his gallery. 

This ended up taking up his whole night. He bounced from client to potential investor to reporter to artist, all the while watching Illya out of the corner of his eye, as he sipped his little glass of wine, as he chatted with some of the organizers. He caught Illya’s eye, and a few more encouraging smiles throughout the rest of the night, but it wasn’t enough. He focused on his work but with Illya in the back of his mind all the while.

Finally, the crowds were dying down. Napoleon felt himself alone for the first time all evening. He twisted his head immediately to look for Illya, and found him in the far corner of the gallery, all by himself.

Napoleon steeled himself. He grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server and chugged it down gratefully. Then he approached. He watched the long line of Illya’s figure in profile, his head tilted up to stare at the painting in front of him, but he was art in his own right. The tilt of his noble chin, the way the gallery lights made the gold flecks in his hair shimmer, it would have given Raphael shivers. As he walked closer, he leaned into the magnetic pull he’d been kept away from for so long. It felt right. It felt good. But it also felt dangerous. 

“Like what you see there?” He asked, mouth breaking into a grin as soon as Illya’s eyes landed on him. Illya smiled too, but smaller, and a little more hesitant. 

“I like it. Yes,” he said, and he looked down at his feet, shaking his head a little. A pink flush was beginning to bloom on his cheeks. “Still I hope you will explain to me why that is.”

Napoleon took a quick glance at the painting Illya was standing in front of. Illya’s presence had this pesky little tendency to make him forget entirely where he was. And then his heart stopped. He felt the colour draining from his face. He’d been in such a rush to put together the exhibition, he’d forgotten this was still up, however tucked away into the back. _He’d_ painted it.

“Oh. Ah. This isn’t part of the exhibition.” 

“No?”

“Clearly nothing to do with climate change.” Napoleon laughed weakly. 

Illya took a breath. He looked at Napoleon for just a second before his eyes travelled back to the wall. He seemed to hesitate. “Who is in this painting?” 

Napoleon’s breath left his chest. He turned away from Illya, took the guise of turning to look at the painting. And there he saw his mother, in all her unmistakeable aliveness. Napoleon wasn’t a painter— not really. He wasn’t like any of the modern artists he showed at his gallery. He liked the classics. The Titians, the Davids, the Rosettis. He liked realism and classical forms and earthy colours, but he liked them rendered with all the beauty and care of the paintbrush. 

He’d painted his mother. It was a portrait she’d sat for, actually, the last one. About a month before the diagnosis. She was working in her garden, head tilted in her inquisitive way, dark hair shot through with silver, crouching over her blooms in a pair of worn dungarees. Around her he’d painted her hard work in full bloom, even though it had been winter. 

“By the time I was finishing it,” he told Illya, ignoring the prickling tears in his eyes, “she was already in the hospital. So I think I was trying to… _will_ her better. _Life, life, life_. It’s all I could think as I painted it.” 

“Did you show her? Before she passed?”

Napoleon’s breath hitched. He managed to shake his head. “It was too big to take into the hospital.”

Now Napoleon felt the impending tears welling up in his eyes and he knew he had to get away. Napoleon made a move for his office, but Illya stood right before the door. Illya caught Napoleon’s wrist, and Napoleon felt magnetized by the contact. He was drawn in, suddenly, closer, warm arms wrapped around him. Getting over his initial shock, he leaned in, tucked his face against the impossible softness of Illya’s sweater, his head in the crook of Illya’s shoulder. He revelled in the feeling of Illya’s warmth, his presence. But he was enjoying it too much. He tensed. 

“You don’t… have to do this.”

“It’s alright,” Illya murmured. The deep timbre of his voice and the comforting sweep of his hand across Napoleon’s back made him positively _melt_. 

“This is a lot for a new friend.”

“Not when I’m all you’ve got.” 

Napoleon cringed, buried his face deeper into Illya’s sweater. “I should apologize for that text.”

Illya laughed and Napoleon felt the warm rumble of it through his whole being. “I don’t need an apology. Maybe an… explanation?”

“Saw family. Got drunk…”

“Thought of me?”

This time, Napoleon extricated himself from the hug. His heart began to beat so fast he was afraid Illya would feel it too. He put a little distance between them again, just to try and think straight, and when his eyes finally mustered up the courage to land back on Illya’s face, he was surprised to see him flushed. Napoleon’s own face was uncomfortably hot. 

Illya spoke first. His voice shattered whatever had been building between them. “Thank you for inviting me to your show. It was so interesting. But. It is getting late.” He gestured in a vague way to indicate he was leaving.

Napoleon’s heart sank. The soft murmurs of the gallery were suddenly too loud, the Mozart filtering through the speakers seemed to blare. He blinked, and attempted to recover. His words were stilted, sticking in his throat. “Of course. Thank _you_ for coming.” 

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then Illya nodded, and brushed past Napoleon to walk towards the exit of the gallery. Napoleon forced himself not to turn and watch him leave.

He tried to breathe, still feeling the ghost of Illya’s arms around him.

— 

They cleaned up the gallery in silence. The rain had stopped. Their quiet shuffling was too loud without the dim thunder. Napoleon packed away the last wine glass carefully into the crates, and Teresa grabbed them from him to load them into her car. 

“You need any help with that?” Napoleon asked. 

Teresa hoisted the crate in her arms, barely breaking a sweat, “I’m fine. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” Napoleon nodded. They’d start packing up the pieces, sending off the ones they’d sold. 

“We had a good run.” Teresa smiled. And Napoleon tried to smile back. He couldn’t quite manage it. Teresa seemed to hesitate, Napoleon’s gaze was averted but he could tell she was looking at him, waiting. He sighed, it was shaky. But he steeled himself and nodded. 

“We did,” he said, and he looked up at her, “Safe drive back.”

Teresa nodded and left finally. Napoleon wandered back towards his office. He stopped at his mother’s portrait on the way back. Despite his best efforts, he thought about Illya. Seeing him that night had made the world shift under his feet. Everything looked different now. 

He hesitated by the door, and he noticed an umbrella. Someone had forgotten it. He walked closer. Picking it up, and weighing it in his hands, he knew it could only be one person. The only one who had wandered back here.

Before Napoleon knew it, his phone was in his hand. Illya texted him his address. And then he was in the tube. And then he was in front of Illya’s door, his hand hovering above the wood. Illya opened the door as soon as he knocked.

Napoleon stared at him in silence for a minute, taking in his sleep-rumpled hair, his baggy pyjama pants and soft t-shirt, which sported a worn Harvard Divinity School logo. Illya stared back. The air between them felt charged. 

“Your umbrella,” Napoleon finally said, remembering it was in his hand. He held it out awkwardly. 

“Thank you,” Illya said, taking it with a small smile. But he stayed in the doorway, Napoleon didn’t want him to leave, but he didn’t know if he could say. 

“I’m sorry I can’t invite you in,” Illya said, and Napoleon felt his heart sink. Still he managed a small, polite smile. He shook his head. 

“Oh, it’s alright, I mean, it was just the umbrella—”

“No,” Illya said, a little too loud, a little too fast. He laughed nervously, his voice dropped back down, just above a whisper, “I just mean. I’m staying with a couple from the church until I find my own place, and they just put their kids to bed. Come sit in the garden with me?”

“Lead the way,” Napoleon said, and tried to quiet his quickening heartbeat. 

Illya stepped out of the doorway, and incidentally closer to Napoleon, who took an awkward step back to avoid colliding with him. All that did was send him stumbling against the wet, uneven stones of their pathway, meaning that Illya had to reach out a warm hand to steady him by his elbow. But Illya chose not to let go, using it instead to lead Napoleon around the little house and into the back garden. They sat side by side on a little wicker bench swing, and Illya bent back the canopy so they could still see the stars. 

Napoleon took a breath. He and Illya faced forward, Illya pushed the swing lightly with his sock-feet, they began to rock back and forth. 

“We’re going to lose the gallery,” Napoleon said, breaking the comfortable silence. 

Illya exhaled, “I’m sorry.” 

“I guess I’ll have to find something else to do.” 

“Have you thought about painting?” 

Napoleon shook his head. “It’s just a hobby.” 

“You’re really good.” 

Napoleon felt warmth spread through his chest, heating up his cheeks. “You’re just saying that because the only painting you’ve seen of mine is of my dead mother. Only sympathy fuelling that sentiment.”

Illya scoffed. “I’m serious. You have an incredible talent for portraiture.” 

“Would you sit for one?” 

Napoleon looked over at Illya, who looked at his hands. In the dim moonlight Napoleon couldn’t quite make out if he was blushing. 

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” 

“Maybe you’re right,” Napoleon said, feeling creeping dread and disappointment. “I don’t know how I’d capture your particular Soviet charm.” 

This surprised a laugh out of Illya. “Is that what it is? Not my model good looks?”

“Well those are a given.” 

“I couldn’t sit still long enough to pose for a portrait.” 

“Really? I wouldn’t peg priest…ing as especially active work.”

Illya laughed again, and it made Napoleon feel warm all over, despite the night’s setting chill. “You’ve seen me. I… move around the pew. I wave my hands a lot when I speak.” 

“Sure. But really, why won’t you pose for a painting? I wouldn’t show it to anyone if you didn’t want me to.”

Illya was silent for a long moment. “I like being your friend.” 

Napoleon furrowed his brow, “I like being your friend too… how would that change if I painted you?” 

“Napoleon,” Illya said, he still wouldn’t look at Napoleon, he let out a frustrated sound, “I like being your friend. But… sometimes it feels a little intense.”

Napoleon heard his mouth click close. He turned away from Illya as if he’d been slapped. A strange hollow feeling took hold in his stomach. What did Illya mean? 

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon said, after an awkward silence had passed, “I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.” He stared adamantly at his hands, even when he felt Illya turn towards him. 

“No… no, you didn’t.”

_Can you tell I’m falling in love with you_ , he wanted to ask, _does it scare you as much as it scares me?_ “Is it because I’m not religious?” he asked instead. 

“What?” Illya laughed, diffusing the tension a little. “No. You don’t have to be religious.”

“Does it bother you, though, that I don’t believe in anything? Or at least… I think I don’t.” 

“No,” Illya shook his head firmly. “Everyone has their own relationship to spirituality. Even if it’s no relationship at all, I respect it.” 

“But it’s helped you?” 

Illya sighed then, and nodded. He caught Napoleon’s eye for a second, and it made Napoleon’s heart leap, but he looked away just as quickly. He paused for a long moment. “I was not… in a good place. In Russia. Tolstoy would roll over in his grave to see the ways my family found to be unhappy. I thought the SVR would be good for me. Naively thought the work was important. But I hurt people. I try everyday not to be chained by the regret I have for that time. But what I do now… this is good work. It fulfils me. For the first time in my life, I think I finally have something important.”

“And you don’t want me to ruin it.” 

Illya sighed then, frustrated. A flare of panic shot through Napoleon, a distinct feeling that he had spoiled the mood, reacted badly to Illya’s vulnerability. 

“It isn’t about you.” 

And how many times had Napoleon heard that before. It didn’t stop every time from feeling like a slap in the face. He sighed. 

“I’m sorry. I always do this. I should go.” He moved to stand, but Illya reached out a hand, a loose grip on his forearm, and Napoleon froze. 

“Napoleon, I didn’t ask you to leave.” 

“You basically implied I’m the antichrist.” 

Illya laughed then, and said, “Goody Procter at most.” And then suddenly the tension was broken again, and Napoleon managed a weak smile, but it quickly fell off his face. He stared at his feet in the grass.

“Didn’t you say something like ‘religion is all about interpretation’?” 

“I said that, yes.” 

“Do you think I could be completely damned? As in… beyond the reach of…interpretation?”

“I never said _that_.” 

“Well you say a lot by not saying anything.” 

That seemed to amuse Illya, surprise him, even. Napoleon watched his lips quirk up in a smirk. Napoleon’s eyes lingered on his lips a second too long. When he looked away again his cheeks felt hot. Illya sighed. 

“I’ll pose for your painting.” 

Napoleon’s head whirled to face him, grinning helplessly. “Really?” 

“If it will prove to you that I do not think you are the earthly incarnation of Satan, then I think I can manage.”

Napoleon could feel his heart, frantic in his chest. “You’ll be perfect.” 

Illya beamed, but then he seemed to think something, and his smile dimmed. A serious expression overtook his features, and Napoleon was too focused on how handsome it made him look, how the set of his jaw accentuated its sharp line, to feel worried about what he might say. But when he spoke, he was reflective. “I think we will be good for each other. At least, I hope so.” 

“Me too,” Napoleon said, the emotion backing the sentiment welled up inside of him. His first real friend in so long. He wanted so badly not to screw it up. “But knowing me, just in case, don’t waste any prayers.”

Illya’s next smile was unreadable, so Napoleon looked up at the stars.

— 

Napoleon woke to an uncomfortable buzzing, hard plastic jabbed against his side. He rolled over in bed, tried in earnest to untangle his limbs from the sheets and find his phone. When he finally wrangled it free and held it in his hands, it stopped buzzing, and revealed about a dozen missed calls from Gaby. Also it was six in the morning. 

“Fuck,” he said, and fumbled to dial her back. Before he could, his phone buzzed with her thirteenth incoming call that morning. 

“Hello?” he picked it up, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. 

“Napoleon,” Gaby said his name in a strange voice, she sounded angry, but also on the precipice of crying. He heard her take a deep breath. “You have to come right now.”

“What? Where are you? Why are you calling so early?” 

“I’m at the house. I can’t fucking find it. You have to come help me.” 

“FInd what?” 

Gaby sighed. “Just get here, I’ll explain later.” 

Napoleon felt an itch of irritation, and he made his impatience known. “I don’t understand how you expect me to just drop everything and come help you, when you couldn’t even come to my gallery’s last show that I’d been telling you about for _months_ and that’s not even to mention _…_ ” But Napoleon trailed off mid-sentence as he heard the tell-tale sounds of his sister’s sniffling little sobs. He sighed. 

“Fine. I’ll be there in twenty.” 

“Thank you,” Gaby said before Napoleon hung up and flung his phone across the bed. He flopped back down against his pillows and sighed. Gaby was going to owe him for this. 

He juggled two lattes in his hands as he paid the taxi driver. He managed to hop out of the cab without spilling anything. The front door was unlocked. He locked it behind him. 

“Gaby?” he called out. 

“In the attic!” her voice called back from somewhere upstairs. 

He sighed and started climbing. He balanced the lattes as he opened the hatch leading up to the attic. He looked around the cramped little space, which was messy on a good day, but which now looked like a tornado had been through it. He sighed. This was not how he wanted to spend a Sunday morning. Still, the dutiful brother, he held a coffee out to Gaby. 

She didn’t move to come get it, instead she turned up her nose. “Is that non-dairy?” 

“What?” he said, “No. Well mine is. Are you vegan now or something?”

“No, I just don’t like dairy. Give me yours.”

“It’s already half-drunk. And I actually am… attempting to be vegan.”

“Well can you attempt it on another day? I just don’t need this today.”

He set the other latte down on a stack of old books and approached her with his own in his hand. “If that’s what you want.” Gaby was crouched over a series of boxes labelled with their mother’s name.

“Why do you need _mom’s_ veil? You’re not wearing her dress.” 

“Of course I’m not wearing her dress, it’s from the eighties for god’s sake.” 

“And it’s a sixties theme?” 

“Exactly.” 

“So why not get a sixties veil?” 

“Mom’s veil works for either.” 

“Okay, but you still haven’t answered my question. Why do you need _mom’s_ specific veil?”

“I can’t get married without it.” 

“If your wedding can fall apart over a piece of lace, I don’t know what that says about your marriage.” 

“It’s not about it being a piece of _lace_ Napoleon! It’s about having mom there with me. I thought you of all people might understand.” 

Napoleon sighed then, at once feeling that sobering grief. “No… I understand.”

Gaby sighed as well. 

“So it’s not in the box with her wedding dress?” Napoleon asked. Gaby let out a frustrated groan. 

“No, you idiot. Do you really think that wouldn’t be the first place I checked?” 

“Okay, okay, Jesus. I’m trying to help you here, don’t yell at me.” 

“Could you be the least bit sympathetic to how stressful this has been for me?” 

“Okay.” Napoleon held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Where are you looking now?” 

“I thought it might have been misplaced with some of her other clothes.”

Gaby shifted over and Napoleon crouched down to the boxes she had been tearing apart. There was a series of colourful sundresses and dungarees, the soft linen blouses their mother had practically lived in her whole life. Napoleon picked a box and started sorting through the clothes, pausing to take in the way that underneath the mothballs and dust, the clothes still smelled like their mother. He took a deep breath and stopped. He looked up to see Gaby across the room, picking out another bag of clothes to look through.

“Hey, Gabs?”

“What?” She was still terse, her arms buried up to the elbow in the bag’s contents.

“Do you remember this?” He held up a long, green linen dress with wooden buttons all down the front and long, flowy sleeves. 

“Is that from Rome?”

“It’s from that boutique by the Piazza del Popolo.”

Gaby smiled, the first smile he’d seen on her in a while. Napoleon felt a small bubble of hope. 

“We had gelato and sat by the obelisk,” Napoleon reminisced. 

“I remember you picked pistachio, the same shade as that dress, and said something obnoxious about you and mum having the same sensibility about colour.”

Napoleon laughed, remembering it fondly. “Hey! In my defense, I was just about to start studying history of art, I was well within my rights to show off.” 

Gaby shook her head, still smiling. “That was a good day.” 

“Not better than the scavenger hunt she organized for us in the Capitoline museum.” 

“We were far too old for that.”

“It was still fun. And I recall you getting _very_ competitive. When I found the Cupid and Psyche before you, you were so angry.”

“Well, it was only my favourite sculpture in the whole museum.”

“You were too slow!”

“It’s not like there was a prize at the end.” 

“There absolutely was, and it was the rightful title of mum’s favourite child.” 

“Oh, grow up, Napoleon!”

“Spoken like a true inferior child.”

“You’re the worst, you know that right? You’re not even helping!”

Napoleon stood up from his box, which was clearly a lost cause. “It’s because I know it’s in the box with her wedding dress and you’re just being thick.”

“I _told_ you I checked it!” 

Napoleon shook his head and walked over to it, stored in the great white box it had come in. He gently removed the lid while Gaby grumbled and continued rifling through her bag. 

Confronted with a mountain of cream-coloured tafetta, Napoleon understood immediately why Gaby opted not to wear this to her actual wedding. Still, he lifted the monstrous dress out of the box, shook it out from the haphazard way it was folded. Like a lazy ghost the scrap of lace that was their mother’s veil floated down to rest on the attic’s wood floor. Napoleon picked it up and turned to his sister who was already walking towards him.

“The words ‘I told you so,’ cannot even express what I’m feeling right now.”

Gaby frowned and snatched the veil from his hands, inspecting it carefully. Napoleon rolled his eyes and brushed past her, grabbing his non-dairy latte and making for the exit. He had one foot on the steps when he heard the telltale sniffling sobs. He sighed and turned back. 

“What’s wrong?”

Gaby turned to him, “It’s torn.”

Napoleon walked back up to her, held his hand out for the lace. Gaby handed it over, and sure enough there was a miniscule, barely-noticeable tear just near the spot where the veil would clip into the hair.

“We can fix it,” Napoleon tried, but Gaby was crying harder now. He sighed and drew her into his arms. She pressed her face against his shoulder, and he could quickly feel her tears seep through his shirt. 

“Gabs, it’ll be okay, we can fix it,” he whispered, trying to rub a soothing hand down her back. He felt her shake and sob, and he realized it wasn’t about the veil. “It’s okay to miss her.” 

“I wish she could be here, it would be so much easier,” she whispered. And Napoleon’s heart broke all over again. 

“I know, Gaby, me too.”

“I feel like an idiot trying to get married without her. For trying to be happy.”

“But you have to try. That’s the worst part. You have to still try.”

“Don’t tell me some bullshit like ‘it’s what she would have wanted.’”

“But isn’t it?” 

“She doesn’t get a say, she’s not even here.”

Napoleon surprised himself with a sudden helpless laugh. Gaby laughed too, even if it turned into a sob. And if Napoleon’s laugh turned teary, then who was to be the wiser? He sighed. 

“Gaby, look, I know Alexander and I haven’t historically… gotten along…”

“You don’t say.”

“Will you let me finish?”

“Fine, fine, go ahead!”

“Ok. So we don’t get along but… but if he makes you happy. If you love him, and he loves you, then keep him. That’s so rare, it’s so special. Don’t let it go.”

Gaby let out a long, shaky exhale. “Why should I be taking advice from you? What do you know about love?” she asked, but it wasn’t hostile like it usually was, instead the question sounded genuine. It didn’t hurt Napoleon. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried to answer honestly. 

“I’m in… I’m in the process of… um… falling in love with someone.”

Gaby stepped back, out from Napoleon's embrace, to peer up at him. Even though her mascara was ringed around her bloodshot eyes, her gaze was still piercing, suspicious. “Really? Who?”

“Um well, he’s this incredibly kind, patient, understanding guy. I’ve never met anyone like him before. He just… he _gets_ me. You know? He sees me.” 

“Oh, Napoleon.” Gaby smiled. “I’m so happy for you. It’s about time you meet someone like that. What does he do?”

“Um. Well. He’s a priest.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

—

After a very well-deserved dressing down from his sister, in which she made very good points about why he was completely out of his mind, and very compelling arguments that he should stop immediately, Napoleon spent the rest of Sunday drowning his sorrows in drink. When evening rolled around, he decided it might be a good idea to go to church.

When he pushed his hand against the big wooden door, it gave way but made a great shuddering creak as it opened. He stumbled into the candle-lit, hallowed church. He looked around, peering down the rows of pews to the glowing altar. It was empty. Conjuring anything he could of his brief childhood Catholic upbringing he remembered the confession booths, their strangely comforting claustrophobia. He ambled towards them, and collapsed into one. He stared straight ahead, not daring to check the little grate. 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” 

“Napoleon?” Illya was there. He sat up a little straighter, immediately sobering. 

He sighed. “It’s been… well. It’s been too many years to count since my last confession.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Do you have a list of what all the sins are? I can’t quite remember. I know impure thoughts is one of them.” 

“Are you drunk?” 

“Is that a sin too, now? If so, I’ve really been doing a bad job.” 

Illya sighed then. “Why did you come here tonight?” 

“Are you still coming over tomorrow?”

“Yes.” His voice was terse, bordering on impatient. “I said I would.” 

“And you never lie?”

“What? Napoleon, why are you asking me this?” 

“Because I can’t for a second believe someone would want to see me if I weren’t also fucking them.” 

There was a long silence. “Tell me what’s really bothering you.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it? Everything is. It never stops. You don’t know what I’d give to find the thing that gives me peace. That makes my brain shut up for just a second. That makes me hate myself less.” 

“Do you know what that could be?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. But I can’t have it. Not without ruining everything.”

“Napoleon. You don’t know that.”

“I’m sorry, Peril. I’m so sorry.”

Illya was silent for a long moment. “Will you tell me what it is?”

Napoleon felt the tension build in his chest, and begin to bubble over. He doubled over, buried his face in his palms. He tried to calm his breathing, stop the room from spinning. 

“If you can’t tell me, it’s alright. But… it is okay to ask for the things you want.”

Napoleon took a breath, his chest ached. “I want what anyone else wants. I want to know someone and be known back. I want to be understood without explaining myself. I want to not be a failure. I want to not be alone.”

“Napoleon—” Illya started, but Napoleon wasn’t ready to hear what he’d say. His hands trembled. 

“But I don’t know how to get anything I want. I don’t know how to ask for it. I don’t think I’m allowed. And I wish that someone would just tell me how to fix myself. I wish that someone could just fix me, and just tell me what to do so I don’t have to be such a fuck-up anymore.”

Napoleon’s breaths came out shallow and shaky. 

“Kneel.” Came Illya’s voice. 

Napoleon stopped breathing. “What?” He barely recognized his voice. 

“Kneel,” Illya said again. “Just kneel.” 

He felt outside of himself, the walls of the confession booth seemed suddenly smaller. He shifted awkwardly, settling down upon his knees, and sitting back on his haunches. He folded his hands in his lap, clamped together to stop their shaking, and he waited. 

Then Illya pulled back the curtain, a strange intensity in his eyes. Napoleon tilted his head up to meet his gaze, and in those winter irises, he felt that incredible calm. Then Illya knelt in front of him, still towering over him somehow, and Napoleon’s heart began to race. In the dim light of the church, he could see Illya’s eyes trained on his lips. And then his hand came up to cup the side of Napoleon’s face. His touch burned. 

Napoleon moved closer too until they shared breath. Napoleon could think of nothing other than Illya’s closeness, it made him feel heady, but he hadn’t been drunk for a long time. His head was clear, empty but for Illya. 

Then Illya kissed him. It was slow, and tentative, almost chaste. But it set off a flare in Napoleon’s chest. Everything caught fire, and Napoleon knew with heart-sinking certainty that he would never come back from this, and that this could never end well. When Illya pulled away there was something unreadable in his eyes. He held Napoleon’s gaze, until Napoleon grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him back, pressing their lips together. 

This time, Illya’s mouth opened under his, and finally _finally_ Napoleon could taste him, run his tongue along Illya’s teeth. Illya pulled him closer, one hand cradling the back of Napoleon’s head, holding him like he was precious. His gentle touch was in sharp contrast to his hungry kisses, the intensity with which he pressed himself to Napoleon. 

All at once he stood up, dragging Napoleon with him. Their kiss never breaking, he started to lead them back, towards his office, Napoleon thought dimly. Then he felt Illya’s hands ruck up his shirt and slide up to smooth over his back, digging in and gently scratching with his short nails in a way that drove every remaining thought out of Napoleon’s mind. Everything was replaced with pure sensation, the heat of Illya against him. Unbidden, his own hands travelled down to Illya’s belt, and he started unfastening it, urgently tugging it loose. He was hard, and so was Illya, he pushed their hips together, and heard Illya moan. 

The sound reverberated through the empty church, but Illya didn’t stop, even though now Napoleon was more aware of his body than ever, more aware of everything that they were doing, but he couldn’t make himself stop. Illya didn’t want him to stop, guiding him backwards until they hit the wall beside his office door. It was only then, Illya’s hand desperately grabbing for the doorknob, that everything shattered. 

The main church doors opened with that awful rattling creak, the sound shattered the moment, and Illya swiftly pushed Napoleon back. He still scrambled for his doorknob, but presumably it was to get away, to collect himself. Napoleon watched him as he struggled with the door— colour high on his cheeks, his hair a wreck, his belt hanging on by one loop, dragging against the floor. Napoleon didn’t even want to think about what he looked like. He couldn’t think. Not with the sinking feeling of Illya’s imminent rejection settling in on him.

He’d leave before he had to hear it. Illya finally got the door open, but before he could turn to look at Napoleon, he was almost gone, pushing past the parishoner whose entry had interrupted them, through that awful creaking door again. 

The cold of the night wasn’t absolution like it usually was. It was harsh. Napoleon shivered until he made it back home. He didn’t sleep, the kiss playing back in his head as soon as he closed his eyes. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to his phone, in the simultaneous hope and fear that Illya would call, or text. 

He didn’t. 

—

The next day brought with it the familiar monotony of unemployment. Napoleon woke at noon, after a fitful few hours of sleep. To stave off anxiety, he set to doing the one thing he knew how to do best— cooking. In particular, he’d make a big batch of red sauce, and it would take him all day. It was’t the most labour intensive but— he could also make a ton of fresh pasta to go with it, and that would certainly keep him occupied. 

By the time the sun set, a cauldron of red gold was bubbling happily on his stove, and his counter and whole front of his apron was dusted with an even layer of flower. Fine butter-yellow piles of fresh tagliatelle were growing in number on his countertop. 

Then he heard his doorbell ring.

Confused, and checking his phone to find no notifications but Gaby’s usual weekly wedding update email, he dusted himself off as best as he could and made his way to the door. He opened it without checking through the peephole and just barely stopped his jaw from dropping to the floor when he found Illya on the other side.

“What are you doing here?” he asked immediately, his voice was breathless. 

“I am sitting for your portrait, aren’t I?” Illya gave him a wry smile. Napoleon stared helplessly. 

“Well come in, then,” he said, not knowing what else to do, and moved aside to let Illya in. He was still in his priest get-up, just as he was last night. Last night. Were they just supposed to ignore what had happened? They wandered into Napoleon’s living room, which was an open concept with his kitchen. 

Illya turned to him. “Something smells nice.” 

“I’m making red sauce.” 

Illya smiled, shaking his head in a fond sort of way. “You and your sister and Italy.” 

“We would go every year. With our mother. The last time was the summer before I went off to university.”

“Why not after that?” 

“I got busy, then she got sick.” 

“You’ve had Rome in your heart ever since.” 

“Beats anywhere else.”

“Even here? Now?” His voice was low and it made Napoleon’s heart twist with something he called desire but knew was helpless love. 

“Illya,” Napoleon hardly ever called him by his first name. He met Napoleon’s gaze, his expression cautious. “Are we going to talk about last night?” 

“I was about to make a point about not living in the past… but I suppose you’ve caught me out.” 

Napoleon sighed, frustrated, and moved towards the kitchen. The sauce was due for a stir. He brushed past Illya, but before he could get very far, Illya caught his wrist. Napoleon whirled around, mouth agape. Illya stalked closer, and crowded him against the back of his couch. Napoleon tilted his head up to hold Illya’s gaze, and Illya took the opportunity to slide his fingers under Napoleon’s collar, which was already slightly unbuttoned. He pushed aside the fabric and slid his fingers along the sensitive skin of Napoleon’s neck, gently stroked the juncture where it met his shoulder. Napoleon shivered and wanted nothing more than Illya to put his mouth there. 

“Illya, please.”

“Not Peril anymore?” His fingers trailed up, leaving goosebumps in their wake, to hook under Napoleon’s chin, thumb passing over the dimple in it. He drew Napoleon’s face close. 

“I don’t know if too much intimacy is a problem anymore.”

Illya smiled wide, and Napoleon’s eyes latched on to those sharp canines, wished to feel the bite of them all over his skin. He couldn’t resist. Napoleon closed the distance between them once again and the fizzling firecracker was lit once more. One of Illya’s hands wrapped around the side of Napoleon’s neck, putting delicious pressure on his pulse point. The other roamed down his body, looping around to skim down his back before grabbing a handful of his ass. Napoleon yelped into Illya’s mouth, feeling the sudden pressure. And Illya laughed tugging him closer, kissing him harder.

Now that it was happening, Napoleon couldn’t believe it hadn’t happened earlier. It felt so easy to fall into Illya, to open his mouth and open his heart and let Illya consume him. When they finally pulled back for air, Illya tucked his face into Napoleon’s neck, kissed every inch of sensitive skin he could reach. Napoleon’s head tilted back further to give him space, and in doing so, he caught sight of his kitchen. He pulled away quickly, even if reluctantly. 

“Fuck. The sauce.” 

Illya looked at him, adorably confused. The entire front of his body was covered in the flour from Napoleon’s apron. Somehow he still made the mess look charming. “Is this an English euphemism I am not aware of?” 

“No Illya,” he smiled, “I was making dinner. It’ll burn.”

“Oh,” Illya said, and then he actually _pouted_ , “I suppose I could eat.”

“Believe me, it’ll taste a lot better than I do.”

“I doubt it.” 

Napoleon’s face felt very hot. He wasn’t sure if it was his indignance about his food or that Illya had given him a subtly dirty compliment and he was _still in his fucking priest get-up_. 

“Come on,” Napoleon said, taking Illya’s hand and drawing him to the kitchen. He sat Illya down at his kitchen table, and walked back to his counter. There he set a pot of water to boil, salted it like the sea, and popped in a couple of bundles of his fresh pasta. Finished in a few minutes, he placed them into a second saucepan, ladled in some of his sauce, and grated in a good amount of vegan parmesan. He turned his burners off and put a lid on his sauce, making a mental note to jar it later. 

He piled two plates high with the steaming, creamy pasta and plopped one in front of Illya. He set his own plate down in his place and grabbed a bottle of wine, pouring himself and Illya a glass. He watched Illya’s expression carefully as he twirled up a forkful of pasta and took a bite. At once his eyes rolled back in his head an look of pure bliss overtook him. Napoleon grinned helplessly, nearly forgetting to eat delighting in watching Illya. 

“You like it?” Napoleon asked, lifting a single brow. 

Illya frowned, but didn’t mean it. “You are good. Second best cook, after my mother.” Then Illya smiled, like the memory was fond. It made Napoleon’s heart flood with joy.

He laughed, finally digging into his own meal. “I’m honoured.” 

Illya was ravenous, and for a long time the only sound was the clink of their forks scraping against their plates. Illya finished quickly, and downed his glass of wine. Then he looked at Napoleon like he wanted to devour him next.

And Napoleon started feeling hot under the collar again under the intensity of his stare. He wanted nothing more than to give into that heady, drunk feeling. A single glass of wine felt like a dozen. Slowly, Illya got to his feet, walked the short distance to Napoleon’s side of the table, and knelt in front of him. Napoleon’s eyes tracked his every move, fixated on him as he came closer, parting Napoleon’s legs and fitting himself in between. Napoleon’s breaths grew short and shallow as Illya tipped his head up to look at him. 

Still, there was that awful sobering feeling in the back of Napoleon’s head. 

“Illya… can we talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about?” 

Napoleon frowned. Too soon, the intensity was beginning to subside. His anxiety began to eclipse his hopeless, lovesick giddiness. He couldn’t stop thinking about all the things Illya said, that he wouldn’t fall in love, that he’d always choose his job. And he wouldn’t even address it. 

Napoleon opened his mouth to speak, just as Illya surged up and kissed him. He kissed Napoleon over and over again until his worries felt like a distant whisper, and his heart felt full to bursting. Napoleon let Illya lead him to his bedroom, let him whisper, “this paintng, you want me naked right?” And that night, pressed into the sheets, Napoleon had never felt closer to another living soul. Illya carried him through waves of bliss, touched every inch of his skin, and kissed him like it would kill him if he stopped. 

“Please, Illya, yes, yes, right there, please, _please_.” He’d begged and panted all night. 

In the morning, he woke up alone. 

— 

On the day of the wedding, Napoleon woke up in Illya’s arms. But then he opened his eyes, and he was alone. He’d just dreamt it, like he dreamed every night. In reality, he and Illya hadn’t seen each other since that fateful night he’d come to Napoleon’s apartment. Still, it hadn’t been radio silence. Illya wasn’t so cruel. A few strangely curt texts were engaged between them, promises to talk, vague excuses about being busy leading up to the wedding. And finally, the wedding. The day they’d _have_ to see each other. What could no longer be put off. 

He dressed like it was for his funeral, combing and slicking back his curls. His sister was looking similarly grim. Napoleon met her first in her hotel room as a flurry of bridesmaids got her ready. As they put the finishing touches on her makeup, one bridesmaid took the now-mended veil out of its box. Napoleon helped her clip it into her hair. She was a vision in a knee-length white dress with three-quarter sleeves, carrying her bouquet of stephanotis, their mother’s veil a bright puff of translucent white around her face.

“Mum would be so proud.” 

“Stop it, Napoleon, don’t make me cry.”

“Seriously, you might even take the lead in the running for favourite child today.”

“I’m serious Napoleon, _stop_.”

He grinned, his first real smile in a while. He hugged his sister, almost crushing her into his body. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt two rogue tears slip out and roll down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away. When he looked back at Gaby, her eyes shone, but, of what he could see through her veil, her face was set, and determined. The wedding march began to play as they walked into the ballroom. It was palatial, warm from the sconce-light, shining and golden.

Napoleon walked her down the aisle. Walking right towards Illya, resplendent in an embroidered white robe. He kept his gaze neutral and forward. But Illya’s eyes stuck on him, immediately, his expression was hard to read from the corner of Napoleon’s eye. He wouldn’t torture himself by dwelling on it too long. He let go of his sister as they made it to the end of the aisle, and he took his seat. When he looked up, he made the mistake of catching Illya’s eye. His expression was wrecked. Napoleon quickly looked away. 

But then of course he started to speak. Because he was the priest. And this was a wedding. That was the whole thing.

“Dearly beloved. I welcome you all to join me in witnessing this holy union between these two souls, a union of love, of committment, that we call matrimony. I am not one for speeches, and given that quality I may have chosen the wrong profession. I often think that, and I tell all my parishoners that a little doubt is healthy, it strengthens your faith. My faith is always renewed when I am presented with an opportunity to preside over marriages. Every time, my naturally cynical worldview is not only challenged but completely destroyed. And it is because love is transformation. We become new people, ascend to the closest thing to what I understand to be God’s image. I believe that the divine mandate we’ve been given— it’s to love. That’s why it is such a miracle to marry, to commit in front of God and all our closest ones, to loving this unlikely match we’ve found. The person who understands us, unspoken. Who accepts us, with every hurt we carry. Who wraps us up in solace and warmth. Who tells us everything will be okay. It’s so rare, and every time it happens, I am mystefied and inspired and energized. And with all that said, I will not keep those very feelings from you any longer. I’ll begin with a passage from Romans 12:9…” 

As Illya finished his speech, and began to open his bible, Napoleon watched a flurry of handkercheifs raised to shining eyes. For his part, Napoleon’s stomach roiled, and his hands were clammy and wet. He felt like he might pass out. Illya’s words echoed in his mind, _someone who understands us, unspoken, who accepts us, with every hurt we carry, who tells us everything will be okay_. He knew exaclty what Illya meant, and that scared him so much he could scream. Being in the front row didn’t give him a lot of leeway to make a subtle exit. 

It turned out, there was no need to be subtle after all. 

Illya opened his mouth to continue with the rest of the ceremony and at that moment, Gaby dropped her bouquet, or more accurately flung it to the ground. Her hands flew up to her veil and haphazardly detached it from her head, ruining her meticulous updo. She looked up at Alexander, and Napoleon could see how her tears had made her mascara run in streaks down her face. She shook her head frantically, the wisps of her hair whirling with the force of it. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” And then she ran down the aisle, heels clicking on the wooden floor. Without looking back, she burst through the double doors, which slammed in her wake. 

Alexander’s mouth was set in a grim line, he stared very resolutely at his shoes. Illya’s mouth was open, frozen in shock. A series of murmurs flooded through the room. And Napoleon was just glad it was all over so he could run to the side of the room and throw up in the nearest garbage bin. He heaved and coughed until nothing was left. A bartender handed him a bottle of water which he drank gratefully. 

Then, considering it was over, he left. 

— 

“That’s never happened to me before.” 

Napoleon’s head shot up. Illya was there, at the bus stop. He’d at least gotten rid of his white priest robes. He was in his regular get-up, collar in place, and an awkward smile accompanying it. Napoleon didn’t have the energy to panic. He’d known this interaction was coming, so it might as well be with his suit wrinkled and sweaty from being sick, his hair wild and curling out of its pomade, dark rings of exhaustion under his eyes. So he did nothing, said nothing, while Illya took a seat next to him on the little bench. 

He sighed. He supposed this is what he’d wanted. To talk.

“Not too many runaway brides?” 

“Surprisingly no. I had started to forget what that ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ business was all about.” 

Despite himself, Napoleon smiled. He would never not be charmed by Illya, and for a brief moment, he hated Illya for that. Or else he wanted to hate him. He was starting to fear that was impossible.

“Where did you come up with that speech?”

“I… well I mostly draw from personal experience.” 

“So where was the part where you don’t call for weeks after your barge into my apartment and into my life and you—”

“I am sorry about that Napoleon. I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear from me.” 

“Why wouldn’t I want to hear from you?” 

“When we… when we slept together, I hoped that would get it out of your system.” 

Napoleon felt sick all over again. “What?” 

“I knew you were unhappy…” Illya seemed to hesitate. Napoleon could tell he was flushed and nervous even in the dim light of the bus stand. “I felt like talking to you wasn’t helping. I just wanted to help.” 

“That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m sorry. I realize now it wasn’t appropriate.”

“Appropriate,” Napoleon echoed, feeling completely hollowed out.

“I hope you’ll be able to forgive me. But I think it’s best if we don’t see each other any more.”

Napoleon couldn’t speak. He just focused on trying to breathe. Dimly, he was aware of Illya standing to leave, he watched Illya pass in front of him, starting to walk away. Napoleon watched his hands start to tremble.

“You know I love you, right?” 

Illya was silent. He turned back, his expression disturbingly calm. “It’ll pass.” 

Napoleon looked away as if he’d been slapped. Felt as if he’d been stabbed. And then Illya said, “I love you too,” making it all the worse.

He walked away and Napoleon didn’t follow him. He folded in on himself, sat hunched over with his face in his hands. He made it home, so heartbroken he felt severed, half-human. 

—

On Sunday he went to church.

He sat in the pews, hollow and hurting, his fingers clasped together and knuckles pressed to his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pray. He wasn’t sure he knew how, but he knew that every part of his soul was wishing, and every part of his mind was whispering his wish, over and over again in the hopes that someone would listen. His lips were even forming the silent words. Despite everything, he’d woken up with hope. That he could come. Explain himself. Beg for another chance. 

The prospect exhausted him before it even happened, just the anticipation had filled him with so much adrenaline, and it was quickly fading as the reality of the situation began to hit. _What would Illya say?_ Napoleon pressed his palms against his face, focused on breathing. And then he heard his voice. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Napoleon took several long, deep breaths. He took a moment before he could turn, but he couldn’t look at him. He trained his eyes on the curl of Illya’s hand, resting against the back of a pew, fingers trailing the psalm book tucked into the little pocket. 

“I’m just trying to see what’s so great about this God guy you’re leaving me for.” 

“Napoleon.” Hearing his own name in Illya’s mouth nearly broke him again. He focused on his breathing. “Please.”

His plan flew out the window. The careful speeches. The crafted arguments. His voice was so weak he barely recognized it. “Why did you do this to me?” 

“What?” 

“Why were you so patient with me? Why were you so kind? Why did you _see_ me like that if it was never… if you were never…” 

Napoleon watched Illya’s jaw clench, saw a muscle in his neck twitch. His expression was hard, crueller than he’d ever seen it. And before he even began to speak, Napoleon braced himself for the sting of his words.

“I am sorry if no one has shown you kindness before. I was only trying to be your friend. I’m sorry if you misinterpreted my feelings.” 

“That’s bullshit,” Napoleon spat, hot anger momentarily filled the chasm of his sadness. “You kissed me,” then he whispered, “You _fucked_ me.”

“Napoleon,” Illya said his name like a warning. Napoleon shook his head, laughed bitterly. 

“You gave me everything I wanted, then you took it away.”

“I’m sorry, Napoleon, I truly am. But I can’t have you coming here. This is my place of work. It’s my place of worship.”

“I’m not trying to get between you and God.”

“Don’t you see you already are?” 

Now, _finally_ , Napoleon looked at him, head spinning in shock. Illya’s eyes were glassy, colour high on his cheeks. Napoleon watched his chest, shuddering. He summoned everything he had left to meet Illya’s eyes once more. 

“So then, choose me.”

Illya was silent. Napoleon had enough hope to wait. Napoleon had enough bravery to keep watching Illya as his face grew pained, as he considered it. He hoped until the very last second. 

“Please don’t come here again.” 

Napoleon was sure if he tried to speak then, nothing would come out. His throat seared, and the rest of his body became unbearably heavy, every part of it burst with pain. Still he got up, brushed past Illya for perhaps the last time, and walked out of the church, its old rusted door shuddering and screaming one last time, and he didn’t look back.

— 

A week later, he was in Fiumicino Airport. In a stunning act of kindness, Gaby had dragged him out of his misery and taken him on what would have been her honeymoon to Rome. Apart from making sure he got out of the hotel every morning, Gaby kept mostly to herself. 

So Napoleon found himself wandering the ancient streets alone, heartbroken in the sweltering heat. He queued for the Coliseum, and browsed Museum exhibits, hiding perpetually red-rimmed eyes behind a large pair of Ray-bans. 

He wouldn’t lie. Rome did lift his spirits some. He wasn’t going to just walk through the Palazzo Barberini without being taken by the vastness of the beauty. He wasn’t going to walk the same streets as Michaelangelo and Raphael and not feel the force of the history in every street-corner. How could he gaze up at the Pantheon’s vast oculus and not see the gods shining back? Though he still hurt, he read Sappho on a cafe patio, and appreciated everything his encounter with bittersweet Eros had meant. 

On the final few days of his sister’s erstwhile honeymoon, they took a trip together, to the Vatican museums. Gaby had broached the topic cautiously, but Napoleon, now suntanned, sardonic, and feeling more like himself by the day had said, “Come on, Gaby, he wasn't the actual _Pope_.” 

Gaby had laughed, a real laugh like he hadn’t heard from her in a long time. “Asking to be safe. I don’t want you getting a taste for men of the cloth.”

Napoleon had rolled his eyes and laughed, though it still felt a little raw. He wanted to ignore that feeling today, and take in the purple sarcophagi, Raphael’s tapestries, the Apollo Belvedere, and the School of Athens. 

And he was alright until the tour path led them to their final stop. All this time in Rome and he hadn’t stepped into a church. Until now. He wasn’t sure the Sistine Chapel counted. It was always too crowded to seem like a space of worship, and really, everyone’s necks were perpetually craned up to the masterpiece on the ceiling. 

But then, he found himself, mouth slightly agape, staring up at Bernini’s great bronze canopy in St. Peter’s Basilica, the way its shining tendrils twisted and reached up towards heaven, ensconced in the chryselephantine temple of the church and for the first time, this whole trip, he thought about Illya. He thought, overwhelmed by the love and craftsmanship in every corner of the building: _isn’t this enough?_ _All this beauty, all this love worked into materials that never decay, that will stand for all of eternity, and it wasn’t enough? All this love, and you needed to take what I loved too?_

Gaby found him soon, at once recognized the downturn in his mood. With a decisive tug on his arm, she pulled him out of his reverie, dragged him back out to the streets, and bought him a gelato. It didn’t make him feel any better. Soon, the sun set. He sulked over his dinner, and afterwards, walked with Gaby down the Spanish steps. They took a seat near the bottom, stared into the glowing waters of the fountain.

Napoleon sighed. His chest felt heavy. 

“I don’t want to leave tomorrow,” he said. 

“So don’t,” replied Gaby. 

He looked over at her, rolling his eyes. “I can’t just stay here.” 

“Why not? Your visa is good for six months, you don’t exactly have a job to get back to. It could do you some good.”

“I _don’t_ have a job, how am I supposed to afford _Rome_ for six months?” 

“I didn’t say you had to stay in the city. Go to a small town. Work for your room and board. You speak enough Italian to get by. You could take art lessons.”

Napoleon blinked at her. She had a point. Gaby took in his expression and grinned. “See,” she said, “I know you.”

“You do,” Napoleon said, only just realizing it. He felt his heart, warm and healing. “Thanks.” 

Gaby waved her hand as if to dismiss it. They fell into another companionable silence. Possibly the last one they’d share before Gaby flew back. Napoleon realized they hadn’t really talked at all since getting here. And they certainly hadn’t talked about _it_. The reason it was the two of them here on what would have been Gaby’s honeymoon. 

“Why didn’t you get married?”

Gaby didn’t look shocked by the question. She sighed like she’d expected Napoleon would ask sooner or later. She looked at him before answering, she looked like she was weighing her words. “It was what the Priest said. About love.” She paused, waited for Napoleon’s reaction. 

He wasn’t going to lie and say it didn’t hurt to think about that speech, about that night and everything that followed. But he steeled himself and nodded for Gaby to continue. 

“To be understood, accepted, loved like that. Solace and warmth? I didn’t have any of that with Alexander. And I’d known it for a long time I think I just needed someone to say it. I needed to hear someone say that about love, instead of everything else I was hearing about marriage. Sacrifice and commitment, those are important, but I didn’t want to just bear all the hard parts without the miracle to make it all worth it.”

Napoleon nodded, it’s all he could do, feeling himself crack and splinter despite how long it had been. It should have stopped hurting by now. He breathed in the cool of the night air. 

“But then again,” Gaby continued, she evaluated him carefully, “Having the miracle without the commitment can’t be great either.” 

Napoleon just shook his head. He sighed. He watched the water trickle and reflect the light of the city, he watched the tourists laugh, heard their words filtered through a thousand voices. 

“I think I’ll stay,” Napoleon said finally. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Gaby got to her feet. 

“Send me a postcard,” she said, “wherever you end up.” 

He looked up at her, managed a smile. “I will.” 

“And make sure you paint it yourself.” 

—

A few days later, Napoleon got off the train at a small town outside of Ferrara. A church was being repainted, murals and portraits and all. The thought of it made him nervous at first, but then he’d managed to get in contact with a local, Dante, well in his seventies, a retired painter who didn’t speak a word of English but would take Napoleon on as his apprentice. He supposed it was the best job he could find, and besides, he took a quick liking to Dante, spry for a septuagenarian. Soon, even with his intermediate Italian, which improved by the day, he and Napoleon got on famously. 

Dante put him to work right away. They would visit the church to look at what needed to be done, and go over plans in Dante’s studio. They had early starts, and though they took a break in the middle of the day, often they would work late into the night. 

Napoleon wasn’t used to painting like this, professionally and to someone else’s rigorous standards. He started from the very basics, learning underpainting, sketching, and his colour theory from scratch. He had a natural talent for it, Dante would tell him, despite his pathetically English sensibilities. 

The days he wasn’t working in Dante’s studio, or helping him with the church, he would bike around the town, sit in the piazza with a cup of gelato. He’d stand and observe the city, life happening all around him, like a regular _umarell_. Beautiful and vibrant Italians of every gender caught his eye, but nothing more. He kept to himself, smiled at the occasional compliments, and let the locals lose interest. 

Months passed and Napoleon’s collection of canvases grew. He painted and painted and painted, renewed with a purpose he had never felt before. His subjects were anything he could find, anything he could see. He sketched and painted every corner of town, found old Etruscan artefacts in the museums, and he had no shortage of subjects volunteering to sit for him. For once, he felt like he belonged, like he was doing something worthwhile. 

Too soon it was time to return home. The thought made him panic, and he considered applying for a visa to stay longer. 

But Dante discouraged it.

“It is time. You go.” 

“ _Dante_ , _possiamo parlare italiano.”_

“No. I say in your language so you understand.” 

Napoleon sighed. “You don’t want me here anymore?” 

“I teach you everything I can teach you. Nothing left.” 

“Why don’t I stay, give you English lessons?” 

Dante _tsked_ , clearly offended. Napoleon held up placating hands. But Dante shook his head. 

“Not run away to Dante. Visit again, yes. But go.” 

“Dante—” but it was worthless to argue. 

It felt like it was going to be impossible to say goodbye to Italy. It felt like he would never be ready. He took a final stroll through town, the day before he’d take the train into Bologna, and catch his flight. He visited his favourite restaurant, had his favourite meal with proper, fancy wine. He sat in the piazza until the sun set. And finally, _finally_ , he paid a final visit to that church. The one he’d been working on all these months. The building didn’t scare him, though it made him think of his heartbreak. He didn’t think he had it in him, but he’d healed. 

London felt alien at first, but Dante had been right. He had needed to come home. The familiar smell of his apartment, especially as he began the familiar ritual of cooking himself dinner. He’d brought back a stash of the special orecchiette shape unique to Dante’s town and made himself a heaping plate with homemade pesto. He settled on his sofa and put on a Rosselini film. He’d ease himself back into London, his heart was still in Italy. 

When he’d finished he settled back on the couch. Sipped and savoured his wine. And soon the jet lag caught up to him, and he fell asleep sitting right there, the end credits of _Stromboli_ rolling on as he drifted off. 

In the morning there was a knock on his door. It woke him up, and he discovered the state in which he’d passed out. There was a big purple blotch along the hem of his shirt from where he’d spilled a bit of his wine. He rubbed his eyes and managed to turn off his tv, and run a hand through his hair. Then there was the knock again.

He stumbled to his feet and then to the door. In his haste, he didn’t bother checking who it was before he opened the door. And that turned out to be a mistake. 

“Hello, Napoleon.” 

“Peril,” he breathed. And Illya beamed at him instantly, though he quickly stopped as he registered Napoleon’s expression. Napoleon felt frozen in shock, trickles of panic beginning to take hold.

“You look good. Healthy. Tan.”

Napoleon blinked, making sure he was fully awake. He was close to asking Illya to pinch him, or just pinching himself. “What are you doing here?”

“I know— it might seem strange.” 

“You said you never wanted to see me again.”

“Napoleon— if I could explain.” 

“Why should I listen to you?”

“I need your help.”

That was the moment the shock wore off and gave way to anger. How could Illya ask this of him? What did he even want? Napoleon didn’t even want to give him the dignity of explaining. He wanted to slam the door in Illya’s face right then and there. He took a deep breath as the silence stretched on between them. Illya, to his credit, looked anywhere but at Napoleon, fiddled nervously with his collar, shuffled his feet. Napoleon’s hand curled around the door. 

But then. He looked at the flush, high on Illya’s cheeks. Finally caught his nervous gaze. He didn’t feel the fight in him anymore. He wasn’t sure _what_ he felt exactly, but it wasn’t anger. It fizzled out just as quickly as it had flared up. He didn’t think he felt longing, or sadness, and when he breathed the heaviness of his heartbreak didn’t fight back. 

“Come in. Let’s talk.” 

Illya sat at his kitchen table, looking like he fit, like he was meant to be there. Napoleon made them coffee in the strange, yet comfortable, silence. As he watched the grounds brewing, he thought about love. About miracles and warmth and solace. And he thought about all those virtues that he had been so sure he didn’t have. Forgiveness. Patience. Hope. 

He sat at the kitchen table. He let Illya explain himself, even though in his heart, Napoleon understood.

**Author's Note:**

> what no serotonin does to a mf  
> title from casimir pulaski day by sufjan stevens


End file.
